


An Officer And A Gentleman.

by Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)



Category: Sharpe (TV), Sharpe - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Community: contrelamontre, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-10
Updated: 2003-03-10
Packaged: 2017-10-10 09:55:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's nothing like having a good friend and a good ale. Not necessarily in that order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Officer And A Gentleman.

**Author's Note:**

> For the contrelamontre 30 minute drunk or sleepy challenge. I tried.

There was nothing better, Sharpe thought, than a good ale and a good friend. In that order, though he supposed that the other way around wouldn't be so bad. To have a good friend, then have a good ale. Or to have a good ale then have a good friend. Decisions, decisions.

Sharpe lay back against his ratty blanket, arms behind his head, and stared at the stars. He could always make out Orion, no matter the weather. It was somewhat of a comfort. No matter where he went or what he did or what rank he gained (or stole through sex, it didn't matter to him), Orion was always there, comforting him. He couldn't find the Big Dipper and had to take his men's word about the North Star, but Orion was always there for him. It was a foundling's form of guardian angel and Sharpe treated it as such.

And tonight Sharpe's guardian angel watched down, (frowning, Sharpe thought, but he never could be sure), as Sharpe abused his privilege as an officer and surrogate-gentleman. A large Irishman knelt between his officer's splayed legs and seemed to be trying to suck ale out of Sharpe's dick. He wouldn't find it though, Sharpe was certain. No, the ale had settled quite nicely in his stomach and was making acquaintance with the other denizens down there. Two loaves of twice-baked bread, split equally among twelve men (though Sharpe had turned a blind eye when Harper had given his officer more than the fair share), and a mouthful of water on the battlefield that morning (also Harper's, as Sharpe's canteen had been shot yet _again_).

Parenthetical comments aside, Sharpe was feeling rather content. Orion overhead and Harper sucking at his lower head, blood rushing from one to the other. Head, that was, not from the stars to Harper, though that was an interesting image, one quite fitting for Harper's employment as a butcher. Of Frenchmen, not Englishmen, though he had tried to kill Sharpe once. Hadn't worked, though Sharpe *had* gotten a nice grope out of the experience.

A nice grope which had led to a drunken Irishman offering self-rape, which had confused Sharpe long enough to have Harper throw him over his shoulder, onto his back, and shag him senseless. Then he had let Sharpe return the favor, once he returned to his senses, of course. One way to avert a court-marital for assaulting an officer, it seemed, was to assault the same officer in an entirely different way. Charges had been dropped, but Sharpe had kept the Irishman. Spoils of war. Like the French wine they had poured into the grass. Bloody French anyway. Who needed them? Couldn't even speak proper English, though Sharpe couldn't either, at the moment. Indeed, he couldn't even speak the word for the state he was in. Inebriation was far beyond him, to enunciate that was. Sharpe rarely got drunk, but he had decided tonight to make an exception. It was, after all, a celebration. Beating the French. Bad French. Trying to get Harper killed. Not good. Sharpe's Harper, and he was keeping him.

Sharpe wasn't aware that he had said anything until Harper stopped his wonderful ministrations to Sharpe's dick. "What is it, sir?"

"Keep on goin', Harper. That's a bleedin' order." Sharpe was vaguely aware that he had said something like 'bad' aloud and Harper, bless his gentle soul, had taken it as a comment on his laving ability. "Yer too damn good at this."

"I do me best, sir."

"An' it's certainly good enough." Having had the final word, Sharpe relaxed again against his hands and tried to find Orion. Vision kept blurring, though. Damn impertinence. Didn't it know there was a war on? Hogan had said so and he was always right, so he was. Always right, but sometimes not. Like the time with that bloody bridge. Bleeding Irisher had said it would be easy. Nearly got them bloody killed. That fucker. Simmerson, fucker. Lost the colors. Colors were good. Almost like Harper's mouth. But not quite. "Nothing's as good as yer mouth, Pat."

"Yer just biased, sir." Sharpe frowned that Harper had taken the time away from his duty to speak to an officer. Didn't he see that Orion was watching? "I'm sure in the morning you'll think otherwise."

"You contr-contra-...you counter-dicking an officer, Sergeant?"

"Only when yer drunk, sir."

"'m not drunk. Completely sober. Sober as...sober as..." Analogy failed Sharpe at the moment.

"As sober as Lieutenant Price, sir?"

"Yes! Sober as Harry-wait a second..." Then Harper did something nice with his tongue and all thoughts of drunken lieutenants (and other officers, junior or otherwise) fled from Sharpe's mind like one of Harper's bleeding birds. Damn Orion anyway, he thought through a haze of pleasure. Damn Orion and damn the war and damn Wellington-Wellesly himself and damn god and all his deviled Frenchies. "Y'got me drunk on purpose, Pat." Accusation last thing on his mind, first thing on his tongue, like Harper's tongue on his balls, licking at them like tasting the saltpetre before using it to be sure it was good. Sharpe's dick was damn good. Dick Sharpe was damned good. Stayed alive this long, hadn't he? Meant he was good. Final word.

"God save Ireland, I didn't."

"Damn God and damn Ireland and damn England and mad King George as well." And damn Harper's impertinence for talking when he should have been sucking.

"Going to make it into an order, sir?" Harper's voice was sly, even to Sharpe's ears. Sharpe frowned and wiggled them. Since when did they know more than his brain?

"Bloody hell. Why not? Go damn them, Pat, bugger 'em even, but first finish me off."

And Harper obeyed, with all the patience and skill of an old Rifleman humoring his officer.


End file.
